


Fraternisation

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron is caught in yet another rift in the Weasley family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fraternisation

It’s only at the wedding that Ron realises the rift is wider than he can bridge.

It’s the hint of grey in Bill’s eyes even when he makes his vows in the sun. It’s the nervous sips at brightly-coloured cocktails whenever anyone asks after one of the Weasley children, and the trapped, wary look on his father’s face when yet another second or third cousin approaches him. It’s the screeching of children behind the marquee - a jumble of three or more languages at this family occasion that seems to have been hijacked for political manoeuvring – that brings to mind the wide-eyed worship of countless kids kept amused by the twins’ antics in the past.

More than anything, it’s the silence of his mother.  
  
Whether the greeting is the hearty “How are your brood doing then, Molly?” of Cousin Edgar, or the “I was so sorry to hear about Charlie, Mrs Weasley,” of some old acquaintance, she replies without a mention of Fred or George, and excuses herself before they can press her for more.

When he hears Mrs Delacour sympathise with the loss of her _three_ sons, he looks around for someone to protest. Bill squeezes Fleur tightly. Percy puts his hand on his mother’s arm. Even Ginny only meets his eye for a guilty couple of seconds before dropping her gaze.

Walking away, he ignores the well-meant pleas of his father.

“It’s for the best, son.”

“Leave it well alone.”

“There’s nothing to be done.”

“Long time, no see, little brother.”

It’s Fred that opens the door, though not wide enough for him to enter.

“Yeah. It’s been…” Difficult? Certainly. Impossible? Of course not. He settles on an answer, finally. “Too long.”

The door opens a fraction wider, and Ron can see George now, too. Right behind his twin, as always. Couldn’t get a sheet of paper between the two of them, that’s what his father had always said.

“Sure you don’t mind being seen—”

“—fraternising with the enemy?”

He smiles at their shared sentence; just one of so many things he’s missed over the past few months.

It seems to be enough.

Times are supposed to be better now the war’s over, but study time spent chasing Dark wizards doesn’t seem to qualify you for anything in the normal Wizarding world. He’s a blank page, a future waiting to happen that he had never been sure enough of _having_ to plan for. “I told you so,” his mother’s pursed lips seem to say every time he sits down with Harry and Hermione to scour the Prophet for opportunities. It’s almost worse that she doesn’t _actually_ say it out loud.

Maybe he’s become a mind-reader. It’s not legilimency; he doesn’t need any fancy incantations or a wand to know what everyone is thinking. Hermione’s wrinkled nose says “You should be trying to make the peace, Ron,” while Harry’s clenched knuckles say “The twins are still my friends, Mrs Weasley,” so clearly Ron is surprised she can’t hear the words.

Hermione chatters too loudly to his mother to mask the tension, swapping household spells Ron knows she doesn’t care about. It works, just a little, until she pulls out a Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes card with her handkerchief.

Walking them to the gate, Ron knows they’re both right when they say he should move out. If it’s tough finding a job and a place to live though, how much harder is it to find a new family?

“They’ll find out eventually,” Hermione says, still flustered from her slip despite Harry’s hand on her back. “You’re not actually very good at keeping secrets, Ron.”

Because she’s right, he redoubles his job-hunting efforts.

Even when the twins are busy, they welcome him.

“It’s the latest product to take off,” Fred says proudly, and George grins at them both.

Ron isn’t sure what to make of the way they appropriate his pile of papers full of job ads.

“I need those,” he protests, but Fred slaps his hands away when he tries to grab them back. A moment later they disappear in a cloud of sweet-smelling mist.

“Perfect for hiding things at a moment’s notice,” George says, and winks. “Could have done with this when we were living at home, I can tell you.”

“If you don’t bring them back again, I’ll still be stuck there when I’m thirty.”

With a twist of a nozzle and a well-aimed spray of mist his haul is restored, to his relief.

“Speaking of jobs, we didn’t like to mention it in the circumstances—”

Fred looks at George, pausing while Ron collapses onto their wonderful, comfortable sofa with his newly restored newspapers.

“—but there is always a job here.” George takes the topmost paper and points, leaning on his shoulder. “We’ve put an ad in for help, you know?”

“Right bunch we’ve had come in so far.” Fred pulls an unimpressed face, joining them on the sofa.

“Yeah,” says George. “You’d be perfect.”

“Handy.”

“Cheap.”

“Couldn’t afford a place around here on those wages.” Ron is tempted, all the same. “And how long do you think I could keep _that_ a secret at home?”

He wants them to talk him into it – and they might only have a two bedroom flat, but he could sleep on the sofa? Before he can suggest it, though, they exchange a glance over his head; one he can’t read.

“Better help you look for something—”

“—more suitable, then, hadn’t we?”

And they take a newspaper each, settling down to a synchronised page-rustling that seems to indicate the subject is closed.

Ron tells himself he’s not disappointed, but he doesn’t stay for supper this time.

When silence greets him at home that evening, he knows they _know_.

It could have been anyone passing by, just a random mention by an acquaintance, he supposes. He’d rather think so, even if it’s more likely that the extra helping of sticky toffee pudding on Percy’s plate tells a different tale.

Silence he could maybe stand, even with the unreasonable guilt every reproachful glance gives him. Predictably, nobody can leave it at that.

“How are they?” Ginny whispers when they’re doing the dishes, the kitchen door not quite closed.

“Go and see them for yourself,” is all he says, even though it’s unfair.

“Mum cried this afternoon,” is her only answer. She leaves him to dry up alone.

Upstairs, he doesn’t even realise he hasn’t locked the bedroom door until it creaks open.

“I hope you know what you’re doing to them, Ron.”

He turns, fists clenched; but Percy doesn’t have the smug look he expects. Instead he picks up his discarded robes from the chair. Folding them is something to do with his hands.

“They’ve been through a lot. The least you can do while you live in this house is respect their wishes.”

“Yeah?” Ron gazes down at the robes he seems to have put in the bottom of his rucksack. “Then the least they can do is tell us _why_.”

“It’s… you’re better off not knowing. Such unnatural things–”

There must be a clue in the flush across Percy’s cheeks, but however hard Ron looks it doesn’t make any sense.

“They won’t tell you either, Ron,” he says when Ron throws a toothbrush in his bag and fastens it up.

“We’ll see.”

The Knight Bus takes such a long way round Ron almost wishes he’d risked apparating. His hands on the slippery bedposts have stopped shaking by the time they reach Diagon Alley, though only just. If he tries, he can think of a dozen reasons why he didn’t use the floo, but none of them seem like the real one.

It takes them a long time to come to the door. They’re both tousle-headed and blurry-eyed, and Ron wonders what the time is. He’s never known the twins to be early to bed, but maybe working for a living has changed them.

He wants to say he’s sorry for coming back when they obviously don’t want him there. He wants to tell them what happened; but he doesn’t need to. Not now. In minutes he’s tucked up in the spare room bed, exhaustion turning to drowsiness.

It’s not until he wakes that he remembers why this is a problem. They don’t _have_ a spare room.

The flat smells like one of his mother’s air freshener spells she was always finding in Witch Weekly, but the only sign of the twins is the note on the kitchen table: _Make yourself at home. Back for lunch around one, F and G_. Of course, it’s Saturday and Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes is open. If he strains he imagines he can hear the tinkle of the shop bell downstairs.

The place is strangely untidy, or so he thinks at first. The mantelpiece and shelves seem more cluttered than usual. After a moment of puzzling over the difference from the sofa, he takes a closer look. Photograph albums he’s never seen before take up one end of the long shelf that stretches down one wall. Propped up on the mantelpiece is a picture of the twins, laughing and waving from the top of some rollercoaster. Blackpool? He thinks he recognises it from a trip years ago. This time they went without him; without any of the family. All the same, he can’t help feeling that he is the one lacking something, not them. Even when thrown from side to side they are joined at the hip; there’s not a sliver of sky to be seen between their bodies.

A movement catches his eye, and he turns his attention to the model Quidditch player next to the photograph. No, two Quidditch players, both red-headed, identical, and sharing a broom in a way that was strictly banned by the regulations. The activity they were engaged in wasn’t exactly banned, but he suspects that’s only because nobody has thought of it as a serious possibility in the middle of a Quidditch match.

He’s not sure how long he sits with the albums on his knee before he opens one, but the clock has ticked round to past twelve thirty before his eyes.

 _Tick_

Fred and George in Quidditch robes, Gryffindor, fourth year he thinks. The knowing look they always seem to have had takes on a new meaning now.

 _Tick_

Two familiar laughing faces, and he smiles. He tries not to smile when they shoo him away and kiss, but other than a thrill of confirmation, it doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t even look wrong.

 _Tick_

Photographs from the beach. Innocent at first glance, but when he leaves it a little longer to turn the page, he realises they’ve grown bolder. A hand - Fred’s he thinks - reaching between the identical bodies to stroke down the long chest. Slowing as they reach his twin’s shorts. Disappearing underneath, his hand a bump under the flimsy cloth.

 _Tick_

If nothing else, it’s educational.

 _Tick_

Tickets from Quidditch matches, scrawled notes on them. Somehow that’s more personal than the photos; he flips past quickly.

 _Tick_

The twins and a blond man, all arms entwined and windswept hair. A whole album of these, maybe more, though none that are very recent.

 _Tick_

He doesn’t bother to put the albums away. When the door clicks open and there’s a low murmur from the hall, he stays where he is.

“No secrets here,” says Fred, hovering in the doorway.

“Not if you’re going to work for us–” George is right behind him, of course.

“—You _are_ going to work for us?”

“I can stay in the spare room?” Ron can feel the relief in the air; in the brief exchange of glances, the movement of hands he can feel but can’t see behind Fred’s back.

“Ron. You’re welcome to sleep in the spare room for as long as you want.”

They squeeze him tightly to seal the deal, crumpling him between them until he has to plead for breathing space. He’s still strangely reluctant to let them go.

He catches Fred’s wink and the exchange of glances as they each sling an arm around his shoulders, but it’s too hard to try to interpret. They speak a language he still can’t understand, even with this new knowledge.

But he has a home, a job, and at least part of his family. Whatever it is, he’ll work it out eventually.


End file.
